grief
by ImDreamingTheDream
Summary: it's written all over him.
_grief_

A Doctor Who oneshot  
by ImDreamingtheDream

 **Character Tags:** Nine, Rose  
 **Genres:** Angst, Abstract  
 **Setting:** Throughout Series One, but mostly early

* * *

Written for a Nine/Rose tumblr challenge, which involved having to write a drabble based on a screenshot and offered title.

* * *

Grief.

It's written all over him.

In the way he walks - brisk soldier's steps, seldom pausing to take in real beauty of something. When he does stop and admire, it is incredible - the wonder in his eyes, the tenderness, but even then he'll be quick in turning away, almost as if he's afraid of damaging it somehow, as if the very touch of his glance will be enough to cause this flower to wither, that planet to burst into flame.

It's written in the way he sits and broods sometimes, with his shoulders slumped as he slouches in the jump seat, the suffering of his years weighing him down. In his clothes, all of which are made up solid dark colors that serve as a plea for detachment, and in the thick leather armor of his jacket. It's in the way he holds things sometimes, be it the sonic or the console, gripping until his knuckles go white.

Rose sees it etched in the lines of his face, in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, in the veins on his inner wrist. She sees it in the way he looks in the mirror sometimes, his eyes filled with self-contempt. She sees it in his too-long, too-hot or too-cold showers and in the screams and wails and moans and strangled sobs she hears at night.

She doesn't know about it, but there is grief to be found aboard the Tardis - there are blades that have pressed against the flesh of his wrists but have never broken the skin, forbidden and toxic bottles stuffed to the back of the cupboard whose caps have been unscrewed, whose necks have been held in his violently trembling hands, but whose contents have never passed his lips. She doesn't know that the Tardis has actually hidden all these bottles away.

You can see it most of all in his eyes, which are so numb sometimes she's overwhelmed. The dark of his pupils swim with anger, loneliness, guilt, tiredness, desperation, and yes, grief.

* * *

When he first saw her, he was taken aback by her beauty, but mostly he was afraid. Saving her made him feel better, but he didn't want to have anything to do with her after. He was so afraid of delivering her a kiss of death - of causing this rose to wither, as all flowers do. But she kept popping up and eventually he gave in to his temptations and plucked her from the ground.

Grief.

There have been so many times he regrets picking her, when she's so very very close to death. But she seems to keep getting out of the way in time, and although you can see it in his eyes - guilt, concern, grief - when he looks at her, you can start to see something else in his eyes too.

Warmth.

It can replace the grief. It can replace the guilt.

Only for short bursts of time, but whenever he's with her, he finds that he can smile for real and laugh for real. She's reminded him what happiness is, and while it comes in short bursts of energy, it's better than anything he's ever felt for a long time. Sure, he's still maintaining some kind of facade, when he lies to her and says he's fine, briskly and defensively. But there are real smiles in the mix. Real joy. And only she can bring it about. So he keeps this flower around, because she gives his all-dark, grief-striken world just a little bit of color.

It's almost enough to make him believe that he can evade the grief forever, over time. But then something happens, something will always come back, and punch him in the stomach. It knocks the air out of him, and the grief returns. It returns to the way he walks. It returns to his clothes. It returns to the lines of his face and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes and the veins on his inner wrist. It returns to the way he looks in the mirror and to his punishing showers. It returns to his dreams at night.

(His dreams. Filled with screams and sobs, women cursing his name, men promising revenge. Children calling out to him in thin little voices, "Why?" Fire and explosions, ghosts haunting him when he's all alone, silent but their eyes accusing).

It returns when he encounters something sharp or toxic, at the slightest glimmer of temptation he gets.

It returns to his eyes. It returns to occupy his whole person, and even she will have to work hard to start to work his way through the armor again - and even that is only always going to temporary.


End file.
